


Death Seemed My Servant

by grumkin_snark



Series: Comment Fics [14]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Girl on Fire Comment Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Finnick survives and owes it to someone who has no business being alive at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Seemed My Servant

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [Finnick lives, but gets horribly disfigured by the mutts in Mockingjay.](http://kolms.livejournal.com/18020.html?thread=1569636#t1569636)
> 
> Hopefully this doesn’t require an exorbitant amount of suspension of disbelief. Also, I may do a continuation at some point in order to expand on some things, but for now I leave you with this.

Annie is his motivation. Has been, really, since he was nineteen and ushering a determined seventeen-year-old into the Training Center and praying the girl from his district, beautiful as a siren and dangerous as a harpy, would finally be the one to emerge victorious. 

She remains so, years later, as he delves into the sewers with soldiers, friends, beside him. With him stays the vision of her at their wedding—their _wedding_!—in that sleek, jade gown of Katniss’s, the thought that soon they could return to the sea and just _be_. Free of Snow, free of the Capitol, free to be Finnick and Annie and no one else.

She’s not what he sees, at the end. He tries to focus on her, on them, and gets only flashes. All he sees is Katniss at the top of the ladder, so near and yet so far, as the mutts swarm and tear into his flesh.

Katniss, shrieking his name over and over, her slate eyes saucers and her skin paling to ash. In that moment, she’s no longer the Mockingjay, just a horrorstruck teenager thrust into a role she’d never wanted.

He’s screaming her name, too, a prayer, a hope, a desperate litany.

One of the lizard-mutts brings its teeth down on his neck, and he has enough time to watch as the girl on fire gives up, collapses against the slimy railing, boneless but for her hand which drops the Holo, speechless but for one repeated word.

He wonders if he should be grateful that she cares enough to end his suffering, or if he should be betrayed that she hadn’t tried harder to save him. There’s a jerk on his neck, then heat and orange-yellow-red, and he doesn’t get the chance to wonder much of anything else.

* * *

The pain hits him first, waves upon waves of agony indistinguishable from each other, stretching from gashes in his legs to weals and burns on his torso to the worst of it—searing stripes that weave a grotesque pattern across his chest, his clavicle, his trachea, his face. Somewhere in the haze of all of it, he discovers a deranged desire to laugh: without even needing to see himself, he knows his visage is destroyed. The features the Capitol had adored, that sponsors had wetted themselves over, they’re ruined. Their perfect, glistening, chiseled golden boy, reduced to scarred trash.

(Finnick Odair has always been damaged, only now it’s on the outside, too.)

He actually does laugh then: belly-deep guffaws that result in coughing up mouthfuls of blood and making his body sing once more in agony. He doesn’t care, though, because even the Capitol wouldn’t be able to fix him now, and Annie’s always said he’s too pretty anyway.

He passes out again after that with a smile playing about his cut lips.

* * *

The pain remains unbearable the next time he wakes, but he catches movement in his peripheral, and manages to loll his head to the right, more of a basal instinct than actual intent. His vision is too cloudy to make out the shape entirely; at least, until it moves closer and Finnick sees what it is.

Its teeth glint yellow in the flickering fluorescents and its skin stretches sinuously gray-white over its bones; the eyes, deep blue and humanoid, and the smell, Snow’s roses, only serve to add to his revulsion. That selfsame basal instinct has him entangling himself in the bedsheets and darting out a hand in vain search for a trident or a knife or a rock or _anything_ , but it doesn’t help. He’s without defense, without even the remotest of physical faculties to fend off the Everdeens’ stupid cat, let alone a mutt.

It doesn’t attack him, though, just slithers up to his bedside, fiddles with something over Finnick’s head that he can’t see, maybe speaks (but that doesn’t make sense, these mutts don’t talk, nothing except rasps and _Katnisss_ ), and then a rush of _something_ floods his bloodstream and yet again, darkness invades.

* * *

Time has no relevance to Finnick, now, and even if it did, he has no way of determining what month it is, what year, let alone how long he’s been…wherever he is. Sporadically, he’s woven in and out of consciousness, just enough to glean that he’s still in the same room, cave-like and cramped, his body throbbing and stretched to bursting.

In his bouts of clarity, he’s also deduced that, somehow, he’s alive. Somehow, by no virtue of his own, he’d survived not only the mutts but the explosion. Yet, no matter how often he wracks his brain to riddle it out, all he gets for his efforts is a migraine. Like a scratched musical disc, he skips from seeing Katniss drop her Holo towards him, and the heat caressing his face, and then nothing. It’s maddening.

But even that is no contest to the ache that pierces his heart deep as one of Katniss’s arrows. The desire to lay his eyes upon Annie is more overwhelming than the pain. And as sure as he is that he loves her, he knows she has no clue he’s down here, in great discomfort but alive. He’s beyond hoping that someone will come to save him, and instead merely prays that she hasn’t retreated back into that arena, so far into herself that no one can bring her back. She’s strong, his wife, stronger than him most days, but there’s no telling where her head might be now.

He utters her name into the stifling, dark silence, just her name, trying to pretend she’s here with him, next to him on what passes for a bed, their hands intertwined and their gazes fixated dually on each other and the matching rings on their fingers. Not for the first time, a tear slides from his eye at the probability that he won’t ever see her again, won’t ever be able to apologize for putting himself in this position, to tell her he loves her just once more.

Shadows play on the walls as one of the lights flickers, and in them he pictures his keeper. Not keeper. Mutt. Something Finnick still has no answer for.

He knows the mutt is the same kind of hellspawn creature as those who’d attacked his Star Squad in the sewers, and yet even when his mind is most rational, he can’t figure it out. The mutt hasn’t finished him off, hasn’t done or said _anything_ , just observes him every so often. More than that, over time, the pain in Finnick’s body has slowly receded, the gouging claw and teeth marks puckering into scars but neither festering nor reopening. As if the mutt is taking care of him.

If this is some kind of test, Finnick thinks he probably isn’t passing.

* * *

He tries to escape, once. All he gets for his efforts is torn stitches and a near blackout, not even reaching the other end of the room before he falls to the floor. The mutt barges in and forces him back onto the bed, handcuffing his wrists to the frame. 

He doesn’t attempt it after that.

* * *

Things change some time later, when instead of adding more drugs to his IV, the mutt undoes his cuffs and leaves him stew. Actual stew. Finnick stares at the bowl for so long it gets cold, until an unfamiliar rumble in his stomach informs him that he’s hungry. Surmising that if the mutt hasn’t killed him by this point, poison is unlikely, he scarfs down the food. Belatedly, he dares to ponder the bizarre possibility that the intention was to elicit memories of District 4, given the tang of shellfish, game, and thin strips of seaweed. 

It pales in comparison to Mags’s creations, but it’s not bad.

Whether from the stew itself or if it was laced with something, his body warms and he gets the urge to stretch his limbs in the minutes that follow. He’s no longer held together by sutures and bandages, but his muscles and joints are still remarkably tender. Twisting experimentally in the light cotton shirt and pants in which he’d been redressed, he slowly eases off the bed and walks around the small room to take stock of the meager surroundings.

He was right about the lights—subpar fluorescents peppered with the carcasses of ill-fated flies and moths, powered by bulbs that are on their way out. He was wrong about the room, though, which is less natural cave than masonry. Uniform in shape and size, the stones curve on both sides and on what passes for a ceiling, vaguely damp but not dripping. The floor has been renovated, with slats of wood running wall-to-wall and providing level, dry ground.

Sometime between examining the lamps and the stone, Finnick realizes what this is. “Homey” touches notwithstanding, it’s obvious: he’s in the sewers. He thinks the lack of smell perhaps threw him off. It’s dank in here, musty, but there’s none of the putrid fumes that had permeated the subterranean passage in which Finnick and the others had traipsed. His breath quickens as he comes to the conclusion that he hasn’t been taken to some Capitol basement or locked up in a prison cell—no, he’s within shouting distance of where he’d been nearly beheaded. Where the others had left him to die.

It’s harder than he’d thought, this realization. He bites his cheek as the mostly-healed gashes on his neck throb uncomfortably, and puts a hand up to cover them. By now, he’s used to the uneven, raised skin that criss-crosses over his body, but every now and then it unnerves him. Ten years of stylists bending over backwards to make sure he’s absolutely flawless, apparently, have left more of a mark than he would have liked.

Jostling his head to clear it, Finnick gets his thoughts in order and reaches for what passes for the door, a rough-hewn, wide plank of wood wedged just-so. He glances back at his bed and pauses, taking in for the first time exactly where he’d been prone for the last…who knows how long. The bed is simple at best, just a thin mattress on a weak frame. Above it, however, are asynchronously sophisticated monitors and a cabinet filled with medical supplies. Burn cream, morphling, antibiotics, drugs he can’t even pronounce. Needless to say, in the middle of this drab, roughshod room, it sticks out.

And yet, somehow, these had all saved his life. Some _one_ had saved his life. Plainly, they either didn’t know how or didn’t bother to remake him entirely, but they’d taken a body marked for death and brought it up to function, sewed together torn skin, replaced lost blood, reduced explosion burns to almost unnoticeable puckers.

Finnick makes a fist, enraged at the whole situation. Whoever it was, he will always be living on borrowed time, thanks to them. Indebted. And in his experience, debts are not pleasant things. At least…not pleasant for _him_.

(He thinks of Annie, naked and writhing, doing things to him until he’s so blissed out he can’t remember his own name; he _doesn’t_ think of shame and smeared makeup and artificial hair and dirty secrets.)

The distraction works, calming his nerves, and he looks away from the cabinet. Grabbing a penlight from the medical supplies, he shoves open the door and steps out into the tunnel. It looks much the same as his room, save the wood floor and any light whatsoever. Offhandedly, he debates whether he should go down here without some sort of weapon, wonders if in those medical supplies would be a scalpel or whether such an object would be pointedly left out. Probably the latter.

Finnick walks slowly, his atrophied limbs doing their best to adjust to sudden use, down and down the sewer for so long he’s suddenly unsure if it will ever end, if this is some kind of nightmare. But finally it does, breaking into a bifurcation, and he picks the left fork for no reason at all. It doesn’t take long to recognize this whole venture was a bad idea.

He hears it before he sees it, a squelching slither somewhere in the distance, accompanied by unintelligible hisses. In an instant, all logical thought flees from his brain and he drops the penlight, where it shorts out in the standing water. He falls to the ground, slams his hands against his ears like he had in the Quarter Quell, as he had in District 13. It does about as much good to him now as it had when it was jabberjays assaulting his senses.

The smell trails the sound. Snow’s roses, and blood, copper a visceral taste in the air. But for the life of him, he can’t move an inch, frozen as he is on the damp stone. He’d never given into fear before, at least not until Annie was held in the Capitol, had always wondered what exactly it was his wife suffered, and now he has an idea. It’s downright terrifying.

His eyes are closed, but he can feel the mutt moving closer until, finally, it snatches his arm and hauls him away. Its claws are indiscriminate in their grip, puncturing his skin, and his legs still won’t work properly, so it’s a dragging scrape back the way he came. The mutt brings him into the room and throws him onto the bed, which creaks in protestation. Finnick scrambles backward, in vain attempt to put as much distance as possible from the creature.

But the lizard-mutt does nothing of the sort, merely stands upright and stares at him. Finnick reflects it, transfixed. There’s something almost…familiar about the mutt’s eyes, so blue and _human_ as they are, that it gives him pause.

Imagining Annie murmuring to him the same words of comfort and reassurance he’d always given to her, he finds his voice. “What are you?” he asks, modulating unevenly from disuse.

“ _Katnisss…_ ”

Finnick feels bile rise in his throat. Memories attack him quickly, the pack of mutts in the sewer, Katniss’s horror reflected down at him. “Stop it,” he whispers. Then, louder, “ _What are you?_ What do you _want_ with me?”

The mutt is silent for a few more moments, and then opens its gaping maw once more. Only this time, it’s not Katniss’s name.

“You don’t know, Mr. Odair?” it asks.

Finnick couldn’t be more floored if he tried. The mutt’s voice stays a sick hiss, but there are definitely words. Confusion colors the shock—mutts don’t act the way this one has, and they certainly aren’t given capabilities like this, certainly not full sentences, most definitely not sentience.

“What?” is all Finnick can muster.

The mutt steps—not slithers, _steps_ —closer, into the glow of the nearest light fixture. Finnick focuses only on the creature’s eyes, letting the rest fall away. And in but a handful of seconds, an identity springs to mind.

“Crane,” he mutters.

But that can’t be right. Even disregarding the impossibility of the being before him, Seneca Crane is long dead. Hanged for his stunt at the Seventy-fourth Games. An accident as far as any of the Capitol citizens knew, but for anyone with half a brain, they could figure it out. Finnick takes a closer look at the mutt, and now he can pick out chinks that make it different—stockier, features more well-defined, steady breathing. And yet…

“How?” he asks, suddenly more interested in the mechanics of the whole thing.

“Genetic retrofitting,” the creature sums up. “I’m surprised, Finnick—did you _really_ believe Snow would just kill me? In essence, it was I who incited the Rebellion.”

Finnick snorts, incredulous. “That was Katniss,” he snaps. “Katniss and thousands of people tired of being controlled. But definitely not _you_.”

The mutt—no, _Crane_ —gauges Finnick like he’s not quite sure what he is anymore. Finnick can’t really blame him, though. The person Crane thought he knew was a whored out, strung out Victor, capital V, who took too many narcotics to try and forget, whose clothes were always a few sizes too small, who wore glitter and body paint and sugar on his lips. An outspoken, derisive, flawed, married Finnick Odair is someone entirely foreign.

“I see we’ve both changed,” says Crane. The more he talks, the more he gets control over his mouth, the more his words sound more like English and less like slurred hisses. “I knew you had fire in you.”

Finnick feels like retching again. After the propo Plutarch had asked him to record, he’d thought he was done thinking about what he’d been made to do, what he’d been turned into. He would never be able to pretend it never happened, but in equal parts it was a portion of his life he’d never wanted dredged to the surface. Yet in a few short words, Crane has him feeling like the same sex-sick kid he was at sixteen.

“You have no more power over me,” Finnick says with more bravado than he currently possesses. “And all of Panem knows exactly what… _preferences_ you enjoy.” He tilts his head and puts on his Capitol smile—too many teeth, careful inflection, veneer of seduction. “Well, _used_ to enjoy. Can’t imagine you get much these days, do you, Seneca?”

Crane’s reptilian face doesn’t register any expression, but Finnick at least feels marginally satisfied. He makes a note to quell his anger, though: if he starts in on Crane with all the vitriol he desires, he’d never stop.

“I am not the villain you paint me to be, Finnick,” says Crane conversationally. “I was doing my job the same as anyone else. Only instead of vaporizing Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark the moment they contemplated those berries, I let both of them live. Tell me, is that so awful?”

Finnick’s hand tightens automatically around empty air. “ _Yes_. It is.”

_And the fucking me against a table, was that just you doing your job, too?_

Crane appears to be mulling over a response, then sighs. “I think we’ve been acquainted long enough to bypass the posturing. Let’s get down to brass tacks. The way I see it, you are very much in debt to me.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Finnick gapes.

“I did save your life, Finnick,” continues Crane. “I pulled you from the mutt pack, I took you away before you could be blown to pieces by Miss Everdeen’s explosion. I healed you here, made you…almost brand-new. You owe me quite a bit.”

With a speed he didn’t expect given his current health, Finnick shoves the mutt against the stone wall, his arm crushing the creature’s throat. He pays no mind to the fact that he’s at a great disadvantage, lacking claws, razor-sharp teeth, and his normal strength.

“I don’t owe you _one fucking thing_ ,” Finnick spits. “You _destroyed_ me. You and Snow and the rest of the Capitol. You stole pieces of me that I can never get back. You made the people I love a _bargaining chip_. You perpetuated the mass murder of children for _sport_. Snow should’ve killed you when he had the chance. My turn now.”

Unaffected, Crane reaches up and drags one of his talons across Finnick’s forearm, where a bright red line of blood seeps up in droplets. Finnick doesn’t flinch. “Quite the atrocities,” Crane relents. “But you and I had some good times. I believe it was one of our little dalliances that allowed Miss Cresta to evade the fate of her district partner, wasn’t it? What a perfectly timed earthquake, that. Imagine how different things might be if a certain assistant hadn’t suggested such a thing.”

Finnick hauls back and sinks his fist into Crane’s head, sending the former Gamemaker sprawling to the ground. Finnick doesn’t feel the pain, only rage. Made worse by the fact that Seneca Crane is right. The earthquake in the Seventieth Hunger Games had struck just as the Career pack was bearing down on a shell-shocked Annie, prepared to chop her to pieces as they had poor Marin. There is no hesitation in his mind that Annie would have had it in her to fight back, to withdraw the knife on her belt and kill each and every one of them. But at the same time, he can’t pretend he wasn’t relieved when the dam had broken, distracting the Careers for just long enough for Annie to sprint the other direction.

“Shut up,” he bites, watching as Crane spits brackish blood from his mouth.

“Pity Snow didn’t let you defend yourself a little,” he says, testing out his jaw. “I know a lot of people who’d pay even more for you if they got to see just what lurks beneath that skin of yours, Finnick.”

Sheer willpower is what has Finnick managing not to vomit all over the floor. In place of it, he jerks out a hand to steady himself against the wall, nails digging into the grimy rock. It wouldn’t do to lose his façade now, not when he’d gone through a hell of a lot worse than Seneca Crane’s barbs.

Done with the needling, Finnick turns and seizes the portable defibrillator from its stand above the bed, pondering only belatedly whether it had had to be used on him. In the same motion, he drags a disoriented Crane once again against the wall and flips on the switch to the machine.

“A thousand volts won't kill you,” he says mildly, “but it won’t be pleasant, especially done in repetition. Either you tell me what the hell is going on, or I fry you.” Lowering the pitch of his voice, he sneers, “And I think we both know your pain threshold isn’t very high.”

Whether from Finnick’s threat or whether Crane has tired of their back-and-forth, he sighs, the susurrus more reptilian than human. “I saved your life so you can return to your family,” he claims.

“ _What_?” Finnick asks, letting a frown draw down his brows. “Why?”

“Coriolanus is dead,” Crane explains. “His own poisons, most like. Katniss Everdeen killed Coin. Your rebels won the war. You’re a smart boy, Finnick—you tell me, why would I want to help you?”

Finnick doesn’t register the question at first, mind reeling with Crane’s information. Snow dead. Snow _dead_. He is reluctant to let the physical relief flood him, on the chance that he’d heard wrong, that the man is in point of fact still alive and kicking. What he wishes more than anything is that he at least could have seen it. With his own eyes, make sure the bastard took breath for the last time. He hopes it was at least painful. He digs his nails into his palms, willing himself not to submit to the smell, that reprehensible, rotten, old blood-rose smell that’s permanently embedded in his sense memory.

He switches gears instead to the safer elements—Coin dead, too. He can’t say he’s very broken up about it. The woman didn’t exactly run her campaign based on nicety. And she did always have a peculiar chill about her, speaking in half-truths and withholding information. Beyond that, if Katniss was the one who ended her, it wouldn’t have been without good reason. Outside of a few judgment lapses, she has some of the best gut instincts of anyone he’s met.

For her, he does allow himself solace, that she’d survived everything. Indisputably, by the time Finnick fell, the rebellion was on track enough to have continued if she’d perished, but knowing that the woman who’d shattered with him, who’d seen sides of him very few others had, who’d sought him out in the dead of night because she knew he was the only one who could understand what she was going through, who’d destroyed her squad’s only shot at detecting pods in order to end his pain, well. He’s more than glad she’s okay.

_Okay_ , he amends to himself, _as far as any of us victors can be._

“To save your own hide,” Finnick supplies, his brain finally sorting through everything and coming back around to Crane’s inquiry. “What makes you think you won’t get the same ending as your Capitol buddies?”

“You,” says Crane. “You victors are all alike. None of you like to have red in your ledgers. And I am the only reason you’re standing here now and not a wall decoration.”

Finnick grits his teeth, nothing short of incensed. He doesn’t owe Crane, not when taking into account how implicit and explicit the man had been in various black portions of Finnick’s life. Yet all the same, Seneca Crane is the only reason he has a chance to reunite with Annie, and the bastard knows it.

Grudgingly, Finnick shuts off the defibrillator and replaces the paddles. “Fine,” he scowls, eyeing Crane with contempt. “But I can’t make any guarantees.”

“You always were so very accommodating, Finnick.”

Itching to newly electrocute Crane just on principle, Finnick asks instead, “What did you do with all my gear?”

“Oh, that,” Crane waves off dismissively. “It was shredded. Your trident’s gone, too.”

Finnick expected as much, but it still pains him. Who knows how long Beetee had spent developing that beauty for him specifically—and to think, he hadn’t even had a chance to test out all of its gadgetry either. He wonders if he can leverage his return from the dead to get another one, just for sentimentality.

Provided Beetee’s alive, Finnick adjusts inwardly. Apart from being told his side had won and that Katniss made it through, he has no knowledge of what had happened following his almost-death in the sewers. Crane must interpret his inner monologue differently, however, because he sidesteps Finnick and rummages through the medicine cabinet, withdrawing a six-inch blade.

“Here, this was still intact.” Crane tosses the knife to him and Finnick catches it by the handle.

It’s indeed the same one he’d had on his person when he embarked on the Capitol mission, matte black to correspond with the rest of the District 13 armaments. Finnick runs his fingers over the blade to check its sharpness, and finds it’s good as new. It’s not his weapon of choice, but it’s better than having none at all. Whatever Crane may say or mean, Finnick doesn’t trust him for a second, and a knife is much more advantageous than fingernails or a repurposed defibrillator.

“How long have I been down here?” is Finnick’s next question, asked with a certain amount of apprehension.

“Three months,” Crane answers. Having the audacity to sound annoyed, he adds, “The Victory Tour would be next week. Had we reason for one.”

Independent entirely of Crane’s mention of the lack of a Seventy-sixth winner, Finnick feels a chill run down his spine. Three months of everyone thinking he’s dead. Three months of the world spinning on without him any the wiser. Three months of _Annie_ mourning him, empty of even a body for a proper funeral. To avoid dwelling on what her state might be after finding out he’d suffered the same end as her district partner, Finnick deigns to believe she’s had no shortage of a support system.

He’d like to think that Katniss’s savior complex would naturally drive her towards making sure Annie’s okay, or that Johanna—oh, _Johanna_ —hadn’t relapsed with her morphling addiction and had taken responsibility, or even that Peeta had recovered more fully and reconnected with his former prison-mate. Or Haymitch, crabby, drunk Haymitch who loves until there’s nothing more to give, had offered her sanctum.

It’s this not knowing that has Finnick clenching the knife tighter and squaring his shoulders. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”

* * *

It turns out having Seneca Crane as his tour guide is actually rather helpful. Without Pollux to indicate exactly which twists, turns, and ladders to take, Finnick has a feeling it would have taken ages for him to locate his way out, if at all. It reminds him of an ancient tale Mags once told him, about a man trapped in a maze with a beast hungry for blood and layman’s string the only way to mark his steps. He’s not happy about it, though, needing to rely on a beast of his own to get out of the stone labyrinth.

Exit they do, an hour later if Finnick’s counts are even, but as soon as the sun hits his eyes, he stifles a cry, flinching away from it. While his eyes have adjusted to poor lighting conditions over the past few months, bright, natural sunlight is another burden entirely. Absent of sunglasses or a hat or even a Peacekeeper helmet, Finnick grits his teeth and faces the midday glare, stalwart. He’s survived two Hunger Games, Annie taken by the Capitol, and being screwed—literally—by too many Capitolites to count. Sun is a cakewalk. _Should_ be a cakewalk.

(It’s not, but he’ll pretend. He’s good at that, still.)

Crane doesn’t seem bothered, which Finnick guesses is due to some modification done by Snow’s engineers. A third eyelid, maybe, like the terns and seals that would patrol the sea outlining his district. He debates this possibility, until it occurs to him that he really doesn’t care.

The lizard doesn’t follow him further, however, just stays glued to the mouth of the sewer. “I expect that pardon, Finnick,” he hisses.

Finnick wants to behave like a child, to retort an _Or you’ll what?_ but too many years of being under Snow’s thumb has him reticent, not wanting to rock the boat when he’s not one hundred percent sure of what players are doing what, when. Even now, he’s not committed to the idea that he no longer has anyone to fear.

So he chooses no answer at all, just as happy to be rid of Crane in any incarnation, albeit temporarily. He waves him off, hears him slither away, then lets out a mostly-involuntary shudder and steps into the day’s warmth.

The first thing he notices, once his pupils contract enough to handle the sun, is how much more… _subdued_ everything is. For as long as he’s known it, the Capitol has been the epitome of excess, of elation, of color. From his current viewpoint, repairs have seemingly barely begun on the streets and buildings. He supposes it had looked worse the last time he was here, but at that point he was more worried about not getting disintegrated by pods than he was about taking in the scenery.

He never envisioned he’d be around to see it, but the city actually looks desolate, muted. The street onto which the sewer had opened up holds no cars or pedestrians, owing undoubtedly to the large hole in the center of it, with long cracks spiderwebbing from the crater. Fallout from a bomb, most likely. A pod, perchance.

It takes him a moment, and then he recognizes this particular avenue. Mrs. Ophelia Rutgower, halfway between the Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth Hunger Games, too much lavender perfume. She was pretty vanilla, as far as his clients have gone, but was also one of his first so she holds an especially thorny spot in his memory.

He glances down the street at the various buildings and settles his eyes on one a block or so to his right. Her condominium complex—or, _was_. Now it’s mostly a skeleton, crumbling in on itself in a mishmash of glass and steel. He muses over whether she’d been caught in the onslaught or whether she’d evaded the whole thing. Perhaps she was tried for treason like so many others. She was before he’d come up with the idea to hoard secrets, thus hadn’t made his publicized list of debauchery, though very probably had her paws in pots she shouldn’t have, like everyone else.

(It strikes him then how twisted it is that he knows the layout of the Capitol only by which sponsors have fucked him where.)

Shaking his head, he looks away from Ophelia’s former residence, reorienting himself and taking off at a swift walk away from the remains. The Presidential Mansion is within walking distance, presuming, of course, that’s where the new regime has set up shop. If they’ve chosen somewhere else, he’d have no choice but to backtrack and defer to Crane once more.

Ignoring that potentiality, he continues down the road and a couple of blocks later spits Finnick onto a major intersection. He hangs a right and spots in the distance the giant white structure of the mansion, and this thoroughfare should take him right up to the gates.

In opposition to Ophelia’s street, this one is replete. Adults and children alike, lined by buildings under active reconstruction, quell what had been an idle thought that maybe the Capitol had actually been entirely depopulated. Most citizens stubbornly wear their showy accoutrements, but not nearly in quantity or quality as they used to. Now, though, even their supplements evoke age, weariness.

He gets ogled by many, and initially he distresses that they recognize him, that they’ll swamp him. It’s only when he sees a child point at him from behind its mother’s skirts that he realizes it’s because of _how_ he looks. The scars, the burns, the slightly uneven gait of muscles unaccustomed to prolonged usage. It almost coaxes a smile—while he’d rather not be gawked at period, this gawking is miles better than it used to be. At least now no one will grope him and try to pass it off as an accident.

His feet doing the leading while his head meanders, the City Circle materializes into sight after seemingly no time at all. Finnick promptly freezes where he stands, held to the concrete by some emotion he can’t name. How many times had he been in this very spot, sauntering into the President’s mansion, silent and screaming inside? Visits here were never beneficial, consisting solely to remind him of his place or to tell him of an additional, usually painful appointment or, once and only once, to inform him that plenty of sponsors would line up for a mentally unstable girl so long as she was pretty.

He sucks in a breath and iterates to himself that this time is different, this time there is no Snow, there is no prostitution. Finnick Odair belongs to himself and not a single person more. Still, it doesn’t help that, in the midst of a Capitol that shows the scars of a war so clearly, the mansion appears utterly untouched. It throws Finnick back to a time before Cinna set District 12 on fire, and it makes his skin crawl. At least there aren’t any roses here; those saved, predictably, for Snow’s precious greenhouse.

Cracking his neck, Finnick steels himself against the memories and strides up to the gate that’s flanked by two sentries. Not Peacekeepers—or at least, not dressed like them—they are in a uniform of black and have no helmets to speak of. Finnick supposes there might have been some good apples among the largely rotten Peacekeeper barrel, and that these may some of them. Certainly they possess some military background, if their rigid stance is anything to go by. While they don’t carry any visible weapons, Finnick is under no illusion that they’re not strapped to the nines, somewhere.

When he approaches, their gazes immediately zero in on him, and they shift just slightly. “Can we help you, sir?” one of them asks. Finnick gauges him to be the superior, based on nothing but intuition and the casual elegance of his stature.

“Yes, I’m here to see President…” Finnick ceases, stumbling across the fact that he doesn’t actually know _who_ is Panem’s new leader. Crane hadn’t told him, and he hadn’t had the foresight to ask. He amends with an internal grimace, “I’m here to see the President.”

“No one sees President Paylor without prior invitation or approval,” says the other guard.

Finnick blesses the tongue slip. President Paylor. _Now_ , he has a card to play. Granted, he’d never actually met the woman himself, but he’d seen the District 8 propo and Katniss herself had relayed to him how impressive she’d been. Young, but not a leader by chance.

“I have a feeling she’d let me through,” Finnick says. “Considering I was a member of Squad 451 and am a personal friend of Katniss Everdeen.”

The guards look at each other in surprise, the exact reaction Finnick was aiming for. He waits patiently as they process his statement. Then the older of the two scrutinizes him closer, no doubt attempting to see past all the marring his body has taken. He narrows his eyes, then quickly turns to his comrade.

“Pence,” he commands, “go tell Madam President that Finnick Odair requests her company.”

“Finnick Odair—?” the guard sputters, before catching the glare of his superior. “Yes, right away, Hayner,” he fumbles, quickly making an about-face and scampering off.

“We all heard you were dead,” says the remaining guard, Hayner.

“Thought I was,” Finnick replies. “I got better. Mostly.”

He gestures blandly to his face, so counterpoint to what anyone remembers, but Hayner doesn’t seem fazed. He’s probably seen a lot worse. He holds out his hand then, open palmed and almost hesitant. “I want to thank you, Mr. Odair,” he says with an air of sincerity, “for the role you played in the revolution. Protecting Miss Everdeen. And for…what you said, about the Capitol.”

“Oh, you mean the part where I was sexually extorted,” Finnick corrects caustically. “That?”

The guard winces, the first show of actual emotion Finnick’s seen from the man. “Yes,” he agrees. “I was stationed here in the city, and of course there were always rumors about you and some of the other victors, but nobody could bring themselves to believe it.”

“Yeah, well,” Finnick says for lack of a better response. His voice cracks a little as he continues, “Listen, um…my wife…do you know what happened to her? Is she…I mean, is she all right?”

Hayner frowns in confusion. “Oh! Annie Cresta,” he says after a moment. “Yes, last I heard. There was a meeting—closed door naturally, but you know how things slip out—before President Coin was assassinated. Miss Cresta was one of the few who voted against holding a new Hunger Games with Capitol children.”

“Annie Odair,” Finnick corrects reflexively. He smiles. “That’s my girl.”

“I believe she’s back in District 4,” Hayner tacks on. “Travel between the districts is easy these days, I’m sure you’d have no trouble going back.”

The mere supposition, that he could not only see Annie again, but that he could return home, untethered for the first time, nearly brings him to his knees. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that,” he says, forcing himself to remain standing.

Hayner begins to reply, but is interrupted by the return of his younger companion. “President Paylor has approved your request,” he announces. He glances at Finnick’s belt where the knife rests, only half-concealed by his shirt. “I am going to have to ask you to surrender your weapon, though.”

Finnick blinks at him. Fortunately, Hayner intercedes before Finnick can snap an objection. “I think we can make an exception. I don’t believe Mr. Odair has the intention to harm her.”

Finnick nods at the guard in gratitude. “Lead the way, junior,” he says with relish.

Before Pence can go anywhere, Hayner places a hand haltingly on his arm and bids to Finnick, “ _I’ll_ escort you.”

Nodding in reluctant acquiescence, Pence regains his position at the gate. Finnick gives him a sarcastic salute and follows Hayner through the courtyard and up the marble steps of the mansion. Truthfully, he’d wager he knows the grounds better than Hayner, ten times over, but he lets the man do his job. He’d been kind enough to answer Finnick’s queries, after all, when he would have been entirely justified in staying silent.

Finnick mostly stares at his feet as Hayner brings him past the ballroom, past alcoves and special, unmonitored rooms, past the hallway that leads to the greenhouse. He finally brings his eyes up when Hayner stops in front of the ornate mahogany doors shutting off the President’s office. He raps smartly on the wood, waits for Paylor’s vocal admittance, then holds the doors open for Finnick to walk through. Finnick inclines his head to the guard, who returns the gesture in kind and lets the door click closed behind him.

President Paylor is precisely how Finnick recalls her from the propo, if perhaps with sharper angles and eyes of a warmer brown than they’d appeared on the broadcast. “President,” he greets politely. “Nice office.”

It’s not entirely a lie, since although the room is fundamentally the same as it was when Snow owned it, everything else has been altered. The desk is no longer of an onyx wood but a deep cherry, the carpet and window draperies not ivory but dark burgundy. To Finnick it’s the color of half-tacky blood, and he wonders if maybe that’s the point. In any event, he’s glad she decided to redecorate.

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, she gets up from her chair and walks around the desk. Pausing there to face him, she abruptly places her hands on his shoulders. He tries not to flinch at the unexpected touch, calmly reminding himself that she’s not a client, not even an adversary. He doesn’t have those anymore.

“Soldier Odair,” she says respectfully. “I think I speak for all of us when I express how pleased I am that you’re alive.”

“So I’ve heard,” Finnick replies. “Can’t say I’m not surprised. I was just a cog in the machine.”

Paylor stifles a laugh. “You weren’t,” she rejects simply, refraining from elaboration. Finnick appreciates it—he’s never been good at accepting real compliments. “We held a ceremony for the fallen,” she continues. “There is an old procedure from before the Dark Days, when they awarded medals to those who suffered injuries in battle. Archives call them Purple Hearts, and in honor of a new government, we decided to reinstitute that practice.”

Paylor drops her hands as Finnick waits, wondering what exactly this has to do with him.

“You were the first of the recipients, and we bestowed yours to your wife, given your…absence,” she clarifies.

“About that,” Finnick says quietly, voicing something that’s gnawed at him since he and Annie wed in the first place, “even though we married in District 13, I trust the validity extends throughout Panem?”

“Oh, of course,” Paylor affirms. “We required Annie to sign an official certificate while she was here, to ensure everything was squared away, but yes, it is valid.”

“Good.”

“Now, Finnick,” Paylor shifts topics brusquely, “I must ask… _how_ exactly did you recover? Katniss was in no state to tell us what happened, but Gale Hawthorne relayed that you were taken down by muttations and then, ah, blown up.”

_I didn't even know Gale was paying attention_ , Finnick thinks bitterly, remembering only Katniss who had even remotely tried to help him. Now that he has a life to be bitter about, he lets himself ignore that they were in the middle of battle and that Gale’s leaving him behind was essentially the just course of action.

“Seneca Crane,” Finnick grunts, loath to admit it. Paylor raises her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her shock. “Yeah, I know. Apparently Snow didn’t execute him, but handed him over to Genetics who made him some sort of human-lizard hybrid. I don’t really know or care how it works. But I guess spending enough time around the Games gave him enough medical knowledge to repair me. More or less. He…saved my life.”

Paylor looks about as repulsed as Finnick feels, which gives him a modicum of vindication. “What are his conditions?” she asks, cutting to the chase.

“A pardon,” Finnick answers. “Getting rid of the scales probably tops his list, too.”

“That…will take some time to consider,” says Paylor. “Anyone of his status is an automatic execution. And even if we _were_ to forgive his past, our science divisions are ghosts of what they were. Half the records for R-and-D were destroyed in the bombings.”

“That’s not really my concern,” Finnick replies. “I don’t give a fuck what you do with him.”

Paylor studies him curiously. “What is it you want, then, Mr. Odair?”

Finnick feels tears spring to his eyes. “Honestly, President Paylor, I just want to go _home_.”

A smile softens the woman’s face. “That, I think, we can manage.”

* * *

Even a full night’s rest in the mansion’s plushest guest rooms doesn’t cure the complaints from his overworked muscles, nor the too-tight stretch of his skin, but once the train doors open onto the platform in District 4 and the scent of the sea hits his senses, it all fades away. He can’t run yet, not with his legs weakened as they are, but the breeze is enough in and of itself.

Brushing roughly through the citizens milling at the station, Finnick eagerly hurries towards the beach, tugging off his shoes the instant he hits the sand. It’s a balm to his soul, feeling the grains squidge between his toes, the cold sting of the ocean as it splashes over his calves. Outlines of sea trawlers dot the horizon, still dragging their nets for the day’s catch. He traces a path he knows well, breaking into a slow jog the closer he gets. He doesn’t believe in fate, or magic, or anything of the sort, yet somehow he knows she’ll be there.

She is, coming into sight as he crests a hill. Barefoot, she stares out at the horizon with her arms wrapped around herself, huddled from chill or memory. He notices a swell in her belly where it used to be flat, feels a not-unpleasant flip of his heart, but even that is secondary to _her_.

And when she turns upon hearing his approach, when he sees that auburn hair twisted with gold sashay about her face and those green eyes fix upon him for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, naught but a single word passes his lips.

_“Annie.”_


End file.
